Sick as a Dog
by Just Cy
Summary: 1812 in the White House The President, James Monroe, is about to make a huge decision during his Presidency, that will effect the nation. He doesn't know his daughter Renee is sick and a cook Wes is the only only one taking care of her. ZxK English
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so *insert disclaimer here*. This is for mew serene's contest. A little bit of background knowledge for the story is simply that this is AU and set in 1812 in the United States. James Monroe is currently the President and it is just before the War of 1812 officially starts.**

The entire White House staff was in a frenzy, and with good reason; not only was the President to return home today, but he was to return home AND make a speech. Every maid was trying to make any place that may be inhabited immaculate. Any horizontal surface was to be dusted, each and every floor to be scrubbed, and clutter was a death sentence. All this was overseen by two wonderful women: the First Lady Mrs. Monroe, and the Chief of Staff Mrs. Holland. Both were running around the house as if they were chickens with their heads cut off to make sure everything would be perfect for such an important day.

"Please, Charlotte, this floor needs to get done before Mr. Monroe gets here, scrub faster dear," Mrs. Holland instructed a young girl, who nodded vigorously and started scrubbing in the same manner.

Mrs. Monroe came into the room in a tizzy, "Oh, please tell me things are coming along!" Her graying dark hair that was normally pulled back into a neat bun had many defiant hairs sticking out, and her normally pristine dress was rumpled.

"Oh, they are dear! Don't you worry," the elderly and portly Mrs. Holland said and told the First Lady, "Mrs. Elizabeth, please, go to the parlor and relax. I'll send Wesley in with some tea for you and the girls. We need you to be ready for this evening. Mr. Monroe wrote that he had an important announcement to make. You can have your tea, then you can go get cleaned up."

"I know, Ginny, I just can't help but worry," she said, and let herself be led into the parlor.

Mrs. Holland scurried into the kitchen to find everyone was hard at work chopping vegetables, boiling, spicing chicken, or in any way shape or form preparing for the meal tonight. It smelled like it was made for God Himself, and that made her extremely happy, but she had a task at hand.

A young man that couldn't have been more than twenty with a long brown ponytail was kneading bread when he was approached by the older servant, "What can I do for you Mrs. Holland?" he asked with a polite smile.

"Could you make tea for Mrs. Monroe and the girls?"

"Consider it done," he said and got out a kettle that was starting to rust, and it was bound to be replaced soon.

She smiled and took off to make sure everything else was getting done.

He waved when she left, more out of politeness than for hope that it would be reciprocated. He then made the tea as fast as he could, and kneaded the bread dough while waiting on the kettle to boil. He got out a shining silver tray, and poured a cup for each of the Monroe girls, making a mental note to use the purple cups because they were Renée's favorite. He maneuvered through the kitchen safely and made his way for the parlor. When he entered, he announced himself and greeted the mistress of the house. He then gave her some tea, and noticed there was someone missing, "Where is Ms. Renée, if I'm not too rude in asking?"

"It's not at all rude, William. She's probably still in her room, most peculiar, as I've sent word for her to come down. Perhaps I should go check on her," she started to rise.

"Nonsense, ma'am, I'll go fetch her for you. You enjoy your tea," he told her with a warm smile, and then added, "um, by the way ma'am, my name is Wesley, not William."

"What a thoughtful young man, going outside of his duty. Thank you, Wembley."

He nodded and took one of the tea cups to give Ms. Renée. He went up the servants' staircase and upon arriving at the young miss' room he knocked. He heard a rustle of fabrics and then the door was opened by a disgruntled, but still gorgeous, Renée in a red dress with a low bodice. Her black hair was down with two braid loops. She had a simple golden chain on, no charm, just the chain, and her earrings matched. They simply hung down, making a unique rattling sound when the multiple dangling chains brushed against each other.

"Oh, Wes," she said. That's all; just said. There was no hint of surprise, or happiness, or anger; it just was.

"Your mother is looking for you," he told her with a smile. He offered her the cup of tea.

"I'm surprised she has the time to wonder," she remarked and thanked the young cook for the tea. She set the tea down abruptly, putting a hand to her mouth, and swallowing hard before taking another sip immediately.

"Well, she has a lot on her mind, but she is wondering why you've ignored her summons." He noticed her discomfort, but struggled over whether or not to say anything.

"Was she really, or did you ask why I wasn't in the parlor?" she asked with a raised eyebrow and another sip of her tea, a little more quickly than usual, as if she were trying to purge some foul taste from her mouth.

His cheeks mirrored the shade of the red silk she was wearing, "Well, I asked, but she was worried all the same, I'm sure." He noticed, and not for the first time, that her own cheeks were flushed. "Ms. Renée, are you feeling quite all right?"

"Well, my temples seem a little sensitive to everything, but I'm fine," she told him with a shrug.

He extended a hand to her forehead, at which she opened her mouth to protest but he said, "You're burning up, Miss. Perhaps you should lie down."

"No, that's quite all right."

"I'll fetch a maid and she can properly attend you."

"Please, no, don't burden yourself," she protested, putting her hand to her mouth again.

"It's no burden; it's my pleasure," he told her, and with a cheeky grin added, "and my job." No amount of protesting was able to stop him from bowing and leaving the room to get her a maid. He sent one up. After that, he went down to the kitchen to resume his bread making.

In the parlor the President had returned, and was greeted by his anxious family. He noticed his second borne daughter was missing, "Where is Renée?" he asked with a puzzled expression.

"I'm not sure, I sent for her," his wife informed her, and then added, "twice."

"Perhaps Mr. Peale is painting another picture of her," Maria suggested.

"Hmm, I don't recall him scheduling a visit," Mrs. Monroe said with a pout.

"Perhaps it just slipped your mind, today looks like it's been a busy day," Mr. Monroe smiled at her with his eyes aglow.

"Father, what was that letter about?" his oldest daughter Eliza asked, taking a sip of her tea which was almost gone.

"Well, I'm giving a speech today darling," he told her, as if he didn't know she had read it.

"I know that Father, but what is your speech about. Shall I proofread it for you? " she offered eagerly. She loved proofreading his speeches.

"No, that's all right dear. Mr. Jefferson helped me with it. You'll have to wait for dinner to hear about my speech." This was an odd statement for Mr. Monroe, for he was a family man, and usually shared things with his girls before the rest of the country, so it wasn't unexpected that he got confused and hurt expressions from the occupants of the room.

"Oh, well," Mrs. Monroe was trying to think of how to change the subject, "how is Mr. Jefferson?"she said, successfully clearing the awkward silence.

"He is well, and he sends his love."

"Oh, he's such a kind old man," Eliza droned. The family kept trying to get a word of the speech out of Mr. Monroe, but he wouldn't budge. The house kept turning, largely unaware of Ms. Renée's delicate condition. But a certain chef was trying to knead away his worry for the young miss down in the kitchen.

**I apologize or this being so short. My idea was an average length one-shot, but the requirements for the contest are that it be a two-shot, so sorry, but the second chapter will be interesting, I swear.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, so I found my initial source to be unreliable, and my history is a little off. James Madison was President during 1812, and Monroe was the Secretary of War and Secretary of State at that point; however, that changes too many details in the story, so you'll have to pardon my inaccuracy. If I do something like this again in the future, I'll be sure to get it right. Sorry.**

Mr. Monroe stepped down from the podium and before leaving the room to walk into the dining hall he said, "You're all invited to dinner tonight. I have a few friends coming over, and as this is shocking news I'm sure you may want to get home, but you are welcome." Then he left to go to the dining room. His speech has been given to the reporters, and they would spread the word. He was in no mood to answer questions; for this was harder on him than any of them. _He _was the one that had to approve Congress' decision.

That didn't stop one of the bright eyed, energetic, young reporters from immediately following him, "Mr. President!"

He turned to look the reporter eye-to-weary-eye. "We'll talk at dinner, son. I'd like to talk to my family first, and you _can_ quote me on that." The President walked into the Dining Hall and greeted his wife with a kiss before telling her the grim news.

"Is something amiss?" Mrs. Monroe asked him with the slightest tilt of her head.

"We must go to war with Great Britain again. We've had an era of good feelings, but we showed them we're independent once; but they're in need of a reminder. We'll be able to resume trade with France, the Indians-"

"If you would please, save the reasons for the reporters. We have to get ready, and I respect my husband's judgment," she told him with quick squeeze of his hand. She then opened the doors to the dining hall to let the reporters in. She smiled at them and said, "The other guests will be arriving shortly. Dinner will be served at 5 o' clock sharp."

Two of the President's daughters walked in. Eliza, the eldest, was wearing a mostly black gown that was tight at the bodice, and left her shoulders bare, but there were golden lace ties on top, and golden detailed flowing designs on the skirt that flowed away from her. Her gloves and shoes matched the details to emphasize their existence. Her golden hair was curled into tight ringlets, and some were pulled back, with a black feather at the tie. She had picked the outfit, anticipating bad news.

Maria, the youngest, was in a pale blue dress with tiny white dots and puffed sleeves. She had a white ribbon in her dark hair, and her stockings were white as well, it was very child-like and suited the nine-year old. She had picked the outfit out anticipating good news.

Up in her room, Renée was trying to regain enough composure to go downstairs for the after-speech dinner. She raised an ungloved hand to her temples, she told herself she just needed to resolve to be fine, and she would be. She had just had her debut in society, she needed to be out, making a name for herself. Eliza had married George Hay at age of 22, however her father insisted when Mr. Hay was away on business (as he was on the day of the declaration of war) Eliza reside with her family. Yet 22 years old was far too old for her mother's liking. Renée was determined to marry by the age of twenty, and that was a mere four years away. She couldn't miss opportunities such as this dinner at that rate. There was a knock at the door, "Just a moment," Renée stated and pulled on a pair of black gloves to match the lace on her silk red dress and a pair of shoes before opening the door.

"Ms. Renée, you can't possibly be thinking of going downstairs," Wes said when he saw her gloved and shoed.

"I must, as I have had my debut it is my duty, and pleasure, to attend. Even if I were not required by debut, it is simply a family meal with company. I could possibly be thinking I'd like to see my father, as I have been too ill to do so since his return," she explained.

"Miss, are you sure you're feeling quite all right? Because if you are not, and you attempt to eat, and feel uneasy, but try to push it down to avoid embarrassment, and then are asked to dance and accept and the twirling gets to you and you are unable to hold down your queasiness anymore and thus vomit on a young man's shoes that will be far more disgraceful than not attending."

Renée looked hard at Wes, he had a point. She couldn't argue it, it was the truth. "I suppose you're right," she told him and sat down on her bed, she added, "and I've told you before, it's just Renée."

Wes kneeled in front of her and took off her shoes for her, "Of course, and I'm glad you think so." He held out his hand, asking for her own to remove the gloves from them. When he received them, he placed the shoes at the bottom of her wardrobe, and folded the gloves to put them on a top shelf in the wardrobe.

"Wes, can undo the bodice of my gown?" Renée asked with the intent to put on her nightgown.

"Um, I'm not sure that'd be appropriate, Renée," he said with the slightest tinting of his cheeks.

"I suppose you're right, my nightgown isn't the most appropriate wear for bed rest," she replied with a sly grin, and got up to fetch her evening wear.

"I'll get it, Renée, don't strain yourself," he told her and got out the longest nightgown the President's daughter owned.

She almost chuckled; but was cut off by another wave of nausea that sent her running into her bathroom.

"Renée, c-can I come in?" he asked her.

"I'd prefer if you-" didn't was what she meant to finish with but was once again silenced by her vomit.

As Wes couldn't know whether Renée meant for him to or not he let his concerns drive him in anyway. Wes was sympathetic to the sixteen year old, and wet a cloth for her neck. He had one hand pressing down the rag, and the other comfortingly and comfortably around her waist.

Renée deposited the non-existent contents of her stomach again, her breathing ragged she tried to keep everything down. She looked at Wes, who was still there for her own comfort, with a dribble of vomit on her chin.

He took a dab of toilet paper and wiped it from her mouth, "Are you all right now?"

"I am for now at least," she responded.

He helped her up, and flushed the vomit away. He re-wet the washcloth and wrung it out in the sink."Do you still need help getting out of you dress?" he asked, and when she nodded he untied the tight strings holding up her dress.

She stepped out of the restroom to change, and trusted Wes to respect that, which he did. She let him know when he could come back in, and was standing in the long, cotton, white nightgown.

"You should probably lie down," he said, and pulled back her covers.

"I probably should," she agreed and lay down in the Queen sized bed with a frown. She didn't like being taken care of. She propped herself up against the head board cushioned with fluffy feather-filled pillows; Wesley then tucked her in and put a refreshingly cold wash-cloth to her neck. "Would you grab my brush?" she asked him.

"Certainly," he complied and got her brush off her vanity. He reached for her hair to undo the braids and begin brushing it.

She pushed his hand down, and snapped, "I can brush my own hair, thank you." She took the brush and removed her own braids, and began to brush her own dark locks. Staring at Wes, but to him it seemed more like she was lost in thought and her eyes just happened to be on him.

Wes bit his lip as to not respond rudely to her harsh tone. He sat at the edge of the bed, and an awkward silence ensued. Renée didn't mind, she was used to silence, but Wes was used to the sounds of the kitchen, the banging of pots and pans, the sound of steel on steel, alarms going off, and friendly chatter amongst the staff. "So, how was the last ball?" he asked, just for some sort of sound.

"It was," she paused, "satisfactory. I danced with Mr. Thomas Fitzgerald, who was quite polite."

"Is that to say he was very delightful or nothing special?" Wes inquired, with the slightest hint of an edge to his voice.

"I'm sure he was quite delightful," Renée informed him.

"Renée," he was going to inform her that she was setting him on edge with this formality and that he was quite sure she was doing so intentionally, but stopped it because he was reminded that he was just a servant in her home.

"Yes, Wes?" she asked, her weary eyes meeting his that were dimmed by the turn in events.

"Never mind, I should probably head back down to the kitchen," he said and got up to leave.

"Wes, you are responsible for cooking, you are not a waiter. They do not need you unless an exuberant breakfast is planned, or they are not prepared for the impromptu ball," she said, trapping him into giving a better reason for leaving.

"Renée, I'm not supposed to be here, and that's the fact of the matter. I have a little brother I have to worry about supporting, and I can't get fired for this," he informed her.

"If you didn't want to stay you didn't have to," she told him with a glare.

"Well I did want to stay," he told her, holding the halfway opened door.

"Then what's with the attitude?" she asked and set down her brush.

"I wanted to stay to be with you, not the Ice Queen," he said and walked out.

She got out of bed and opened the door again, "What do you mean?"

He turned around, "If you want me to stay, I will, but not if you're just going to sit there deep in thoughts that you'd rather I not know about." He looked at her lovely form, but he forced himself to look away; he wasn't permitted to think such thoughts, especially not when he was mad at her.

"If that's how you feel then you can go back to your quarters," she said and turned back to go into her room.

He grabbed her hand, "Wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude," he told her with sad eyes.

"I know you didn't, and I suppose I was rude as well."

"You're forgiven," he assured her. "Besides, you at least have illness to blame for irritability. I, on the other hand, have no excuse."

"I'm not usually so rude when I'm ill," she told him, "and you had every reason to be rude back to me.

"I suppose," he replied and looked her in the eye. Neither one spoke, but it wasn't awkward this time, it just was. Wes decided if there was ever a time and a reason to get fired it was now and this was the chance to take. He leaned closer, and tilted her head closer with his thumb. He finally broke the eye contact by closing his, and planted his lips chastely on hers. It was an interesting mix of the waxy taste of the remnants of her lipstick and the sugary taste in his mouth from his last snitching form the kitchen. His brown eyes slowly opened to meet her wide-open blue ones. He turned away to hide his cheeks which were on fire, "I-I should probably go."

"Not after that," she said calmly. "You'll be sick as a dog, and we wouldn't want to place that on Mrs. Holland," she reasoned with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

He smiled back at her broadly, "No, I suppose we wouldn't."

**Well, what do you think? I promised interesting, so how did I do?**


End file.
